


Permanent Red

by DevilOfWire



Series: DevilOfWire's Kinktober 2019 [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Anatomy, BDSM, Blood As Lube, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Bottom Will Graham, Cannibalism Play, Creampie, Edgeplay, Established Relationship, Knifeplay, M/M, Mild Gore, One Shot, Painplay, Rape Roleplay, Roleplay, Scarification, Sensory Deprivation, Smut, There's A Tag For That, Top Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-22 22:44:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20881889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilOfWire/pseuds/DevilOfWire
Summary: 3. Sensory Deprivation |Temperature Play| Edgeplay | KnifeplayHannibal and Will might just be roleplaying a serial killer holding a detective at knifepoint in his own home, but the scar that's left is made pretty damn permanent.





	Permanent Red

**Author's Note:**

> **IF YOU ARE UNDER 18 DO _NOT_ READ.**
> 
> How much of this is roleplay and how much is real is up to you. For instance, Hannibal could actually be a creepy serial murderer cannibal and Will a backstabbing FBI agent, _ or_, it could just be two normal guys pretending all that _ really _ hard. I honestly don't know which one I would prefer! 
> 
> Also, big warnings for rape roleplay, blood play, extreme pain play, and mentions of gore. Seriously, it's straight up sick (completely consensual) torture. Just in case you missed it in the tags! Go read them thoroughly! 
> 
> Okay, enough talking, now please enjoy!

Will's muscles ache as he tosses his coat onto the ground, ripping his tie off and throwing it somewhere behind him.

God, it had been such a gruelling, mindless day at work. Nearly sixteen hours in one shift with collectively fifteen minutes of break, mostly spent sitting at his desk, pacing in his office, reading the same sheets until his eyes went blurry and the words bled together into one incomprehensible mess. Oh, but he did occasionally go out: driving himself in the pouring rain and through fucking hail storms to examine rotting corpses and blood trails beginning to wash away, walking about the forests looking for a hint, a clue, a weapon, _ anything,_ but finding nothing, nothing, _ nothing!_

It was God damned infuriating!

Oh, but he's finally _ home _and now he can go stomp down the hall to his bedroom, pass out on his covers until he must wake to repeat the whole cycle yet again the next morning, as he's been doing for two weeks now.

He begins to do just that, bare feet padding across the polished floorboards and echoing in the otherwise completely empty, spacious house. Sometimes he feels lonely, just one man in a three-story building, wealthy from his high-stress job but absolutely lifeless because of it as well.

He presses his hand to the door frame of his bedroom.

The wind is knocked from his lungs, vision going dark for entire terrifying seconds as he's left with absolutely no information, just a confusing, pained void which seems to span entire minutes, hours.

And then he finally comes to, eyes blinking open, finally functioning, able to breathe once again, although restricted by _something._

He looks down to see the shiny, flat glint of an object held right against the nape of his neck, taking half a second to realize it fully for what it is: a knife. Not just a knife but a carving knife, long, thin, with a clearly defined edge coming all the way up to a needle-sharp point. Best for cutting thin slices of meat, the carving knife suddenly seems important, familiar, and it clicks in his head, this must be the weapon for the serial murders he'd been slaving over for weeks, what with the way the bodies had been carefully but deeply mutilated.

This all registers in the span of a few seconds and now Will's brain is beginning to panic as it notices a tight vice around his rib cage, partly preventing him breathing. He lets out a piercing scream without even having to think about it at all, carnal and terrified.

That is, before a rough hand is slapped hard over his mouth, shutting him up and then some as he wheezes in pain. He struggles, thrashes, but the larger body pressing behind him keeps him easily pinned and locked down, the bone-tiredness of Will's making him unable to even try to fight after a pathetic minute or two, leaving him absolutely helpless at the mercy of this stranger holding him at knifepoint.

"Don't worry," a deep voice murmurs into the shell of his ear, "I won't do anything if you don't misbehave."

The knife upon his throat presses down just the tiniest bit, Will being able to feel it grazing his skin, slicing the most superficial layer of epidermis but going no further, even as it rounds his jugular. He can't even swallow, that's how close he knows it is, just the slightest twitch of either of them, and he would surely be dead as his throat is punctured or slit. He would wind up just as all those other victims have: methodically posed, organs strewn about like art for miles.

But that voice, that _ voice,_ it seems somehow familiar. His mind races back to all the people who he's talked to, every grieving family member, every witness, every suspect. He remembers who it is. Hannibal Lecter, an innocent bystander to one of the crimes that occurred in an alleyway. Will would like to say that he knew it, had a suspicion of doubt in his mind as the man recounted his mundane day, but he didn't, he really didn't. He had no idea at all.

"Walk forward," Hannibal says.

And so Will does best he can with an arm tight around his waist, a blade still brandished before his throat. They move slowly forward, so slowly it's more like a crawl, but they round the doorway to his bedroom with some footwork from Hannibal forcing him there.

A large hand slams upon his back just as the knife is removed from in front of him, propelling his body forward, so he stumbles and barely catches himself to fall onto the bed, prone, again left breathless from having the air pushed from his lungs.

The sound of a door quietly clicking shut comes from behind him, Will too exhausted to look. He feels utter fear run through his body, making him shudder and twitch uncontrollably. God, he doesn't want to die.

Nothing happens for a good moment, so Will finds his voice, coming out as barely a broken whimper, "Wh-what a-are you… going to do… to me?"

The sound of lips twisting into a smile reaches his ears. A light flashes in front of him on the bedsheets, bright and white, the reflection of moonlight from the knife. "I just want to have some fun with you, that's all. Nothing more, nothing less."

Will shivers horribly. As footsteps quickly draw near and a strong body suddenly collapses on him, he screams once again in sheer terror, unable to stop himself until fingers close over his mouth.

Hannibal tuts above him. "You make too much sound, you know that?" Something thin and cold presses against the back of his skull, dragging down until Will realizes it's the tip of the knife. "Could you just try being silent?"

The blade shifts until it rests horizontally across the middle of his neck, pressing down slightly more.

"Well," Hannibal chuckles, "I wouldn't shake your head if I were you any longer. But _ perhaps _ you could nod? Only one way to find out."

Will nods, so slow it hardly even counts as a nod, but the knife remains still and doesn't start slicing through his flesh, so it works.

_ "Good." _ The hand around his mouth finally withdraws, allowing him to wrack in shuddering gasps. Hannibal laughs at him. "Oh, it's nothing to worry about!" he says. "Just some good old-fashioned fun."

The bed shifts as Hannibal twists. Will spares a glance behind him to see Hannibal exchanging knives upon his own night stand, from a carving one to a much duller looking chef's knife. Hannibal's eyes immediately snap to Will's, a look of fury in them.

"Don't look," he chides, "it's impolite."

Will snaps his gaze back to the bed, not even daring to move them at all anymore.

A tightness forms around his midriff, oddly rising, and Will figures out that it's his shirt being pulled up from behind him by Hannibal, yanked until it's tight around his chest.

The sound of fabric ripping loudly accompanies the feeling of being able to breathe again, Will collecting that Hannibal must be shredding his shirt apart with the knife. It wasn't his flesh, so he should be relieved, but Will's smart enough to know that there's no way this will be the end of it, more so that it's meant to be just a temporary salvation to get his hopes up before they're destroyed by what's surely to come.

Shreds of his clothing land in tatters around him, drifting from the air to settle onto the surrounding bed, reminiscent of what was often done with the entrails of the serial murder victims. Hannibal snickers, tugging at the waistband of Will's pants until they come down with his boxers to the peak of his pale ass. He leans back, bones cracking, and there's the clatter of metal. Something makes a high-pitched snapping sound, like latex being pulled, Will thinks, and then the sound of tinny steel comes once again.

The cold tip of what must be the pointed carving knife sits at the top of his tail bone, only this time, it grows from being a teasing pressure to an actually worrying one. With the slightest movement of Hannibal's hand, the point drags down, and Will feels the thin skin over his coccyx be sliced open, immediately stinging with horrible pain as his vulnerable flesh is revealed to the cool air. He manages to only make a whimper of pain in his mouth, otherwise remaining silent somehow.

"Don't worry, Will," Hannibal says from behind him as he drags the wider back of the blade up his spine, "this knife is completely sterilized. And, trust me, I know what I'm doing."

The bed moves slightly as Hannibal repositions himself for a better angle over Will, and the movement makes Will realize, with great shame, that he's actually _ hard._ He's fucking hard, and not just from adrenaline or fear, no, he knows it's from pure arousal.

_ Fuck._

The knife stops between his shoulder blades, a gloved hand running around the knife to ensure as such, kneading slightly down to feel for the underlying muscles and bone structure.

He seems pleased with himself, keeping the knife at its exact position before pressing down once again, Will seething through his teeth as the blade rips through his fragile skin and into his tissues, _ every single _ nerve ending shooting off intense signals of pain as it's destroyed, ev _ ery sin _gle millimetre the knife goes deeper being palpable to him.

"Oh," Hannibal says absent-mindedly, stilling the blade, "and you really shouldn't move, Will. Not even a twitch. It will ruin my work, and the results could be disastrous."

Hannibal gives Will no time to ingest that information before searing pain shoots through Will's entire body, a bleeding wound left deep into his flesh ending a quarter down his spine's length, deep as Hannibal could possibly make it without severing precious muscle connections, tendons, arteries, or, of course, bone. He knows exactly where to cut, exactly along which plane, which direction, how deep, how level, and makes his cuts within the furthest millimetre he possibly can. He remembers every facet of human anatomy as well as Will does, the location of every single vein, blood vessel, tissue, seared to permanent memory.

The pain doesn't end with just that mark, however. Hannibal keeps going, keeps making cuts, incisions, here and there, upon his shoulder blade, down near his spine, diagonal between them, to either of his sides, across his hips, slashing, tearing, shredding his flesh apart. He seems in a frenzy, unable to stop, a new, perfectly straight cut made every single second. Despite their frequency, every incision is like a fire being ripped across Will's flesh, burning hot and unbearable, forcing tears to his eyes after only a few seconds of this torture. He can't even scream, body too busy being unable to draw any breath with complete shock.

The agony forces his mind into a completely different state, one basic and instinctual, knowing only pleasure and pain, punishment and reward. The slick cuts hurt like a fucking bitch still, but somewhere along the way, his mind seems to adapt to it, to turn it into something euphoric, surging dopamine into his brain and making his blood pulse fast and hard within him, all of his senses seeming keen and razor-sharp.

He's fucking dying, but he feels more alive than he ever has.

He feels blood spot and collect on his back, running down his sides and staining the white sheets. It feels like there's _ so much _of it, enough to fill buckets, splashing here and there onto his arms which now try to control his sobs and salty tears blinding him, leaking down and drooling into adjacent cuts, getting Hannibal's gloves soaked until his back feels more fucking liquid than dry skin.

He tries to control his breathing, to quell his sobbing, so he doesn't have and shudder in his lungs like he so badly wants to, because he knows that could mean his chest twitching, the knife subsequently pushing too far. It could possibly mean his permanent paralysis or death, if it were in just the right spot.

After minutes of constant movement, Hannibal above him is breathing heavier, although it could also be from sexual arousal, as Will feels something hot and hard pressing into his thigh near where he sits.

Finally, though, Hannibal stops, leans back slightly. Will breathes a sigh of utter relief, tearful and ragged.

And then, the knife comes back down to slice the longest incision Hannibal has ever made, right from the bottom of his shoulder blades to the initial cut made on the top of his tail bone, all in one smooth, fluid motion. It catches him completely off-guard, feels like he'd just been shot through the brain, even the pain incomprehensible.

"Done."

Will finally lets loose the sobs and cries he'd been holding in for minutes, shaking violently and muscles twitching from the strain of having to be held _ perfectly _still. The stinging pain is excruciating, his entire fucking back ruined forever, marred to an unrecognizable extent.

"Oh, Will," Hannibal says in a soothing voice, moving to put a hand to his shoulder and console him, "don't cry. It's perfect!"

They stay like that for a few minutes as Will's sobs slowly lessen, the sting in his back becoming a slightly bearable thrum, Hannibal praising him with words about how he did so wonderfully, he's so beautiful, so amazing, so unbelievable, and before, with his pale, unmarked skin, he was such a good _ canvas._

Finally, as Will's tear ducts finally run dry, Hannibal asks him to sit up. Will groans at the mere thought, but moves slowly, riddled with pain, to do so. He tries to straighten his back but finds he can not more than forty-five degrees, slouching as the muscles of his back tremble uncontrollably with trauma, feeling awfully tight and hot.

"Well," Hannibal says as he helps Will scoot to the edge of the bed, "that will have to do."

As Hannibal rises from the bed entirely to move to the other side of the room, Will remembering just in time not to look, he wonders what he's doing, making him sit up and move. Hannibal pads back and leans down behind him, something cool and smooth pressing to his rear.

Hannibal doesn't tell him what it is, what he's doing, but Will slowly comes to understand as his leaking blood flows down the slope of his back in warm red rivers, Hannibal moving the object to catch the majority of the fluid as it drips. It makes Will shiver.

A minute they sit there in silence, just waiting as Will's body steadily pours more blood, as Hannibal collects it, until Will wonders if he might pass out from blood loss soon, vision dimming, sudden heat flushing his entire body. He's about to tell Hannibal he doesn't think he can keep doing this when he finally moves away, taking a few steps back and telling Will he can lie down again, if he wants to.

Will does, grateful at no longer having to use his ruined muscles to prop himself up. Hannibal seems to notice his twitching and abrupt sweating, asking him if he's alright. Will nods.

"I need verbal confirmation, Will, if you really want to continue now."

"Yes," Will manages to croak, although the hot flash remains the same, nauseousness a distant feeling.

"Are you sure?"

"If I pass the fuck out… you can stop. Otherwise, I'm pr-pretty sure I can continue. Just give me… a minute."

Hannibal does just that, sitting on the bed and stroking his calf as Will continues to shudder and flush, switching between hot from blood loss to cold from his fresh wounds every few seconds. Finally, though, he can give Hannibal the okay as his body returns mostly to normal, consciousness regained.

"Very good, Will," Hannibal says, "wouldn't want to take you to the hospital in this state, would we?" Will manages a chuckle. Oh, that would look pretty damning. "Now, no more talking, again. Unless, of course, you _ really _ need something, then don't be afraid to speak up." Will nods once.

Behind him, the bed creaks as Hannibal rises, the sounds of some liquid being swirled in a glass obvious in the quiet of the room, Hannibal laughing slightly with giddy.

Then, there's silence.

The sound of swallowing, then an elated sigh.

"Oh, Will," Hannibal hums, "if I had known you were _ this _ delicious, I would have been doing this for _ years."_

It should be disgusting. The thought of drinking human blood like red wine should be vile to him, should bring acid to his mouth, and yet, it doesn't. Instead, the thought of it, the mental imagery his mind is forced to make as he lie there staring at the headboard, makes him pant quietly, reminds him of the need he has pressing into the bed, makes him forget the horrendous sting of his open wounds. Makes it worth it.

Hannibal moves forward on the bed, something new coming into Will's vision for the first time in roughly ten minutes, a glass filled nearly to the brim. It looks _ just _like red wine, but he knows very well it isn't.

"Try some."

Will dares to shake his head.

A finger snakes under his chin, tilting his head up. The cool of the thin glass meets his lips anyway. "I'm not asking, I'm telling. Try it."

So Will parts his lips, lets Hannibal spill just the tiniest bit of his own fresh blood into his mouth. It coats his tongue entirely, every taste bud taking in the rich tang of iron, the delicate sour of it. It doesn't taste very good to him, but after the initial burst of flavour, he gets over it. He could _ almost _see how one could come to delight in it.

"Like it?"

Will nods, swallowing palely.

Hannibal moves away and takes another mouthful before sounding to set the glass down on the night stand. The sounds of liquid being poured to and fro go on for a while, Hannibal tutting. "Such a shame, having to water it down, but it must be done to make it so it doesn't clot, unfortunately." He sighs. "Ah, but it is the purpose of blood on the outside, isn't it? To scab over and assist in healing nice and quickly. Too bad that just can't do this time."

Some things clatter about and then, abruptly, Will feels something press against his hip, dragging down as his pants are held away from his body firmly. The sounds of cotton being shredded plays once again, swiftly ripping all the way down to his ankle and leaving his outer leg to feel the cool of the room bare. Hannibal steps to the side and does the same to his other leg, then easily pulling it off and away from his body, leaving him naked but for his boxers.

Hannibal makes a sound of surprise, nearly drawing Will to look before he remembers himself and the aforementioned rules. A pair of rough hands come down upon his legs, drifting up to his thighs where they remain for a second, slightly tacky from the drying blood.

"You're hard," Hannibal tells more than wonders, Will almost being able to feel the daggers of his eyes upon the unmistakable bulge in his underwear.

His fingers move methodically over his naked legs, playing on the sides of them and then dragging to the more sensitive insides, spreading them upwards towards his crotch. He plays with his sac for a while through the fabric, toying and squeezing it lightly, making Will groan. He moves his hand under Will's body to palm at his throbbing cock, only one good grip which brings white light behind his eyes before he moves away, taking the elastic of his undergarments with it as though that's what he originally meant to do in the first place.

The tight fabric of his boxers rip easily under the knife's blade, giving way as Hannibal saws from front to back. Will tenses up entirely, terrified of a hacking knife being so close to his nether regions, mere movements away from chopping off his reproductive organs.

But, of course, Hannibal does a flawless job, and the underwear is thrown about just the same as the rest of his attire, now leaving him entirely nude and vulnerable upon the bed.

Hannibal's hand comes back to Will's crotch, going straight from his leaking cock and dragging it out to lay on the bed beneath his balls. He draws a slow index finger down the backside of his erection, such a small action but so much for Will after his torture and anticipation. He can feel the scratch of his clotted blood upon his cock, making the glove stick here and there and bump unexpectedly, so unlike the smooth texture of human flesh, so foreign. Yet, for some damned reason, it only stands to get Will off quicker.

When Hannibal inevitably reaches Will's tip, he just lifts his sole finger and returns to the base, then drags down once again. It's unbearably slow, practised, robotic, never changing speed or pressure, never giving special attention anywhere, just stroking as though he were nothing. Not a living being of flesh and blood with horrible pain and need, but just something to touch and watch, like an object.

Will begins to pant out of a mixture of heady pleasure and sheer frustration, trying to shift his hips but finding the doctor behind him pins him down when he does that. He can only lay there, motionless, tensing his cock and balls for any sort of added stimulation. He's the one who needs to speed up to reach orgasm, he needs to get there almost entirely himself with just the smallest inkling of pleasure teasing him to all hell.

But somehow, he manages, presses the side of his face into the mattress and moans raggedly, turning the tiniest stimulation into an intense one solely with his mind, body beginning to spasm as the pleasure builds and builds until he's nearly there on the precipice, just the slightest push, just one more fucking move, and he's, God, he's finally going to fucking cum–

The finger is ripped away, cold air upon his cock shocking him enough to jump, previous thoughts completely scattered and forgotten other than the twitch of his balls which had risen, just seconds away from spilling.

He wants to cry, wants to beg Hannibal to let him cum, please, doesn't he deserve that even a little after being shredded to ribbons? But he remembers the carving knife, the immense terror which had him frozen in fear when it was at his throat, and he shuts up before he even opens his mouth.

Hannibal gets up and moves to the dresser, seems to grab a few things and set them down near the bed. The sharp sounds of gloves being replaced hits his ears, then the sound of a cap being twisted, perhaps. Hannibal walks right behind him on the bed, but doesn't sit, just kneels from the way the wooden boards creak.

Something glugs and less than a second later, some viscous fluid is poured all over his back, fresh gloves moving quickly to rub at his raw wounds and push the liquid in. Will does scream at that, the fingers light but still there, and that alone is a horrid sensation that sets his bloody cuts on fire and brings tears to his eyes once again.

"Oh, come on Will, I've sawed off the limbs of people who've cried less than you!" Hannibal jokes, not slowing his motions at all. "It's just scarlet tattoo ink! It will soak into your flesh just the same as a tattoo needle would, and will colour your scar dark against your pale skin forever."

_ Forever?_

Will thrashes around, the red ink spilling off his side. "Oh, Will, it's too late to try to get it out! It's already in your blood, staining your tissues, there's no way of reversing that, I'm afraid!"

Will's shaking in light sobs by the time Hannibal's finally done molesting his wounds.

Gloves snap once again, the sound becoming almost Pavlovian to Will who recoils in fear automatically.

More things move nearby and afar, plastic mainly. His cuts hurt too much to really pay attention anymore, the knowledge that they would forever be permanently obvious crushing him. He was really ruined forever, wasn't he?

"Now," Hannibal says as he returns to the bed right behind him, "this is an irritant. It will probably hurt quite a bit but it's meant to. If you really need me to stop, say 'red' and I'll flush it out with water, okay?"

"O-okay," Will says despite his better thinking.

A cap unscrews easily, and then something again pours just before it hits his back. This time, however, it all happens much quicker, the liquid thin as water.

Pain, pain, immense, stinging pain. It leaves his world blinding white in the dark of the room, even as he squints his eyes shut and shouts. His body automatically moves as far away as it can manage, but so does Hannibal, chasing him to get that horribly acidic concoction all over his gaping wounds. First contact with the cuts is especially bad, feeling like a raging wildfire which surges all the way from the doused nerves of the wound to his spine and right to his brain, unignorable and too much all at once—but subsequent pouring proves to be nearly as bad as well as it intensifies the sting even further somehow, seeming to push the fluid deeper into his wounds where it's left to fizzle and soak into his blood and flesh, the only place it can possibly go.

His body keeps fighting on its own as the agony proves too much for it to even handle, forcing Will's brain to remain mostly unthinking through the excruciating pain, just experiencing it, barely recognising his own tremors and screams as they happen. The word "red" finds itself on the tip of his tongue, hanging just off of it, until his mind starts chanting it, screaming it loudly. But he just _ can't _ bring himself to say it, because he knows this won't _ kill _him.

Soon, his body becomes completely exhausted, muscles drained of what little energy he had to begin with, and he goes lax despite the torture still assaulting his senses, just allowing it to happen now. Hannibal just keeps pouring and pouring, finding it much easier now that Will's stopped twitching and thrusting away.

"Lemon juice and vinegar," Hannibal says as he goes over his wounds one last time, the blood hardly visible for this new mixture replacing it. Somehow, Will hearing those words makes the pain sting even more.

"It's meant to make it so your scars will be even further pronounced, as your body will be unable to heal as well with the irritants inside of the wound."

He pats Will once on the upper thigh, seeming to smile. "You did good, though, Will. I really was expecting you to tap out on me."

Hannibal moves away, takes a gulp or two of the glass of blood. "Oh, I'm going to miss this, but we'll do this again sometime, won't we?" He laughs over the noises of mixing and swirling into numerous objects.

"Well," he says as he returns soon enough, "at least your blood will serve another use, although it's much worse at this one, even with the anti-coagulating agent and lube. It will clot and dry much too soon for my liking—such a pity—so we'll have to make this quick."

A cold mixture pours against his ass, running down the curve of his legs to the bed. It feels thinner but not nearly as thin as pure blood, made somewhat jelly-like. The knowledge that that's partly his own blood has him both deeply disturbed and aroused, limp cock from the agony of before beginning to swell once again.

Hannibal chuckles at the sight of it.

He brings his fingers down to Will's ass, soaking his glove thoroughly in the blood lube mixture, before pushing at his taut entrance in the middle. As he breaches in, Will realizes something with horror, "Y-you didn't change your gl–"

"Shh," Hannibal murmurs, stroking his hip with his other hand, "I know. It won't hurt you."

He keeps pushing inside, adding a finger and stroking his sensitive walls which sting at the slight traces of acids. Hannibal finds his prostate gland and rubs it just the way Will seems to like the best, firm but irregularly. Will huffs, finally getting sufficient pleasure, canting his hips which Hannibal seems to allow now.

He starts fondling his cock with the other hand, making Will moan despite the slight prickling sensations his soiled glove has on it, despite the knowledge his own blood makes up half of the lube being used to fuck him right now.

Will feels his body clench, twitch, the pain miserable but the pleasure euphoric as a consequence.

Right as he's on the verge of orgasm after only a minute or two, though, Hannibal stops once again. "You know one of the best ways to ensure a wound doesn't heal properly?" he asks as disgustingly slick sounds play throughout the room, lubing up his own cock. "Constant movement."

Will feels something blunt and hot press at his hole which is certainly not stretched near enough the size of the probing part. Nevertheless, Hannibal thrusts his cock smoothly inside, aided greatly by the blood mixture. He gives Will absolutely no time to acclimate, just gliding in powerfully, meeting their hips hard, chasing his pleasure selfishly.

The headboard bangs and the bed creaks, Will crying out in a confusing mixture of pleasure and pain as his genitals are stimulated to the max but so are his cuts, sliding open and pushing closed with every unforgiving thrust, rippling across his back. At least it's more bearable, for his blood and the other fluids have dried and leached into his tissues, finally giving him some little break from true misery.

Will barely hears the snap of gloves, just moaning and panting as he tries to cum, writhing on the bedsheets and twisting his hips so Hannibal's cock graces against his prostate.

But he does realize when something comes down upon his back, long fingers pushing against his cuts yet again and sliding over them ruthlessly. It feels oddly _ gritty,_ like sand, and as Hannibal doesn't even slow his thrusts nor stop massaging his fingers, Will realizes with horror that the little granules of _ whatever _ are pushing _ into _his tears, ripping open his smooth cuts in microscopic ways which can still surely be felt. The things run under his skin, rolling across his back until they find a wound to nestle themselves into and stick, causing yet more pain as his wounds are reopened. More stinging plays along his body, although at this point it would seem his body's grown used to it, the movements of the fine grains more than anything hurting him now.

"Salt," Hannibal pants above him, continuing to fuck into him hard and fast as possible, "and sugar."

Will rolls his eyes into the back of his head, trying to overcome the torture of his scars being hurt yet again to find pleasure somehow. He seems to manage, Hannibal smiling as Will moans like a whore now despite having his ripped-open back abraded by a million tiny particles.

"Ah," Hannibal sighs as he fucks into him deep, "the vinegar really has made you tighter than usual, the old wives' tale is true a-after all!"

Will's close, so close, and something tells him he'll finally get it, making him shout out meaningless sounds, feeling incapable of higher language or thought, just chasing pleasure until it's all he knows.

Hannibal leans down, finally stilling his hands as he's satisfied, breathing loudly into Will's ear.

"Lemon juice, vinegar, salt, and sugar," he whispers barely above the sounds of their fucking. "Don't you get it, Will?"

Will can only groan.

"You're like a piece of meat, and I'm slowly marinating you," Hannibal says right into his ear, "not just over hours or days, no, _ years._ So when you finally die one day at my own hands, you'll be the most delicious carcass to have ever walked this Earth."

Will cums more at those words than anything else, whimpering as he ejaculates beneath himself onto the covers soaked thoroughly in his blood.

Hannibal follows closely behind, cumming inside of him with a shout of Will's name, just barely holding himself up so he doesn't collapse on his freshly scarred back. He slides out limply and throws away his gloves for the last time, telling Will how amazing he did, how great that was.

"What did you think of it, Will?" he asks.

Will breathes heavily, moving his head to the side to finally look Hannibal in the eyes for the first time in over half an hour. "I think it was wonderful."

Hannibal grins. "I'm so glad."

He takes Will by the hand and beckons him to sit up, which Will does with great difficulty, but with the aid of his slowly healing wounds and Hannibal's great assistance, he manages to. Hannibal then does most of the walking as he half-carries half-supports Will to standing and then walking out of the absolute crime scene of a bedroom and down the hall a short ways to the bathroom, Will groaning pain the entire way, dripping some blood and God knows what onto the floorboards periodically.

They make it to the large shower, where Hannibal helps him sit before turning it onto a nice warmth, spraying mainly his ass and legs but carefully avoiding his back, flushing his hole out until the cum and blood and whatever else it gone, spotless now. He says he's sorry repeatedly, feeling some guilt as he looks at Will's pained winces face-to-face, no longer made acceptable by sex.

Will says it's fine, says it's what he himself wanted, what he's wanted for so long. Now he finally has it.

Hannibal strips himself and quickly washes his body off, mostly for the blood on his thighs which have now ruined his pants.

The shower over, Hannibal helps Will to stand, towelling him dry on the toilet lid before doing the same to himself, tying a bathrobe.

"C-can I see what it looks like?" Will whispers.

Hannibal smiles. "Of course you can. It is your body."

So he wraps the towel loosely around his buttocks, pulling him to standing once again, moving him to the huge wall-mounted mirror over the counter. Hannibal grabs the sizable hand mirror he'd placed on the counter, putting it into Will's shaking hands.

Will uses the mirrors to look at his back for the first time, eyes widening as he sees it's not at all what he expected.

It's not just a bunch of random marks, not even just a pattern of cuts like it had felt like.

It's an entire drawing.

A giant red moth, wings stretched wide to either side and going from the sides of his ribcage all the way to the top of his hips. He gasps when he sees the rendering at the centre: a skull upon the moth's thorax, carefully etched into his flesh so it's obvious what it is.

"What do you think?" Hannibal says, bringing Will back to reality and out of his shock.

Will looks the whole thing over once again, being able to recognize every bright red line from his thorough torture of before, committing it all to memory.

He looks to Hannibal and grins. "Oh, it's perfect!"

Hannibal laughs. "Isn't it?"

As Hannibal wraps his back in medical film and tapes it completely shut, Will jokes he can't wait until work after his weeks-long break to heal is over, can hardly stand to just imagine how it would feel to be there and have _ that _ hidden under his shirt while all of his co-workers are absolutely none the wiser.

They move out of the bathroom with joy, passing by the bedroom which Hannibal will have to rigorously clean later.

Hannibal asks if Will's hungry; he'd prepared a little something hours ago.

Will grins and says he's fucking starving.

**Author's Note:**

> * * *
> 
> _Check me out for updates and art and stuff! <3 _
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> 
> I tried to make Blood As Lube realistic, but I really don't know if the stuff in this fic is at all possible lol. For real, blood sucks, don't actually use it as lube! 
> 
> Also, idk if the death moth thing is cliché or what. Just the only thing I could think of! 
> 
> Other than that, though, thanks so much for reading! Leaving kudos, comments, critiques, etc. would be lovely! 
> 
> Now have a nice one and don't _ ever _ do anything in this fic! ;]


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